“Yes; everything went off very well. Andros, you, as the god of wine, were the hero of the first day.” “And Crispin, as Æschylus-Aristophanes, of the second,” cried Maurice brightly. “Not forgetting Maurice, as the athlete Milo of the third,” replied the poet, raising his glass. “Oh dear, dear!” said Helena, with a merry smile; “I am afraid this is a mutual admiration society. God, poet, athlete; you are all flattering yourselves, but no one says a good word for me.” “It is impossible to flatter perfection,” remarked Caliphronas with one of his burning glances; “besides, you have been the queen of the three days, and we are all secondary characters. The stars are not the rivals of the sun.” “Why did you not say the moon?” said Helena, fastening a red rose in the breast of her robe. “I love the moon better than the sun.” “You are the inviolate Artemis!” “Without an Endymion.” It was an unlucky remark, and Helena regretted having made it when she saw how fiercely her two lovers glanced at one another. “Artemis waited a long time for her shepherd, but he came at last,” said the Greek significantly. “And did nothing but sleep when he did come,” cried Maurice angrily; “a pretty lover truly! Helena, you are no moon-goddess, but your namesake of Troy—the world’s desire.” “Yet even Helen had her Paris,” interposed Caliphronas quickly. “Every woman has her Paris nowadays,” said Crispin quickly, to forestall the angry reply of the rival lover; “only it is a city instead of a man, which is just as charming and more manageable. If Menelaus had been ruler of Lutetia, Helen would never have been persuaded to leave it for a dull provincial town like Troy.” “‘Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris!’” observed Justinian quietly. “Tennyson’s line would apply equally to the son of Priam or the city of pleasure. There, Crispin, is the subject for a song, which idea I will make you a present of for nothing.” “Sing of Paris the city,” cried Helena vivaciously. “No, Paris the man,” said Maurice, with a glance at Caliphronas. “Sing of both,” rejoined that gentleman quickly, out of sheer contradiction. “It is a hard task to improvise on so difficult a subject as ‘the Paris of Paris,’” remarked Crispin jestingly; “however, I will try, although I have no lyre.” “Take this myrtle,” said Helena, tossing him a twig across the table, “and sing to it in the Greek fashion.” “Maurice, you ought to give me your crown, so that myrtle and olive inspire me with the breath of the god.” “‘King Pandion he is dead,’” rejoined Maurice lightly. “The gods inspire no songs to-day, nor would they be answerable for a mixture of the classic and romantic, such as your ‘Paris of Paris’ is bound to be.” “Judge for yourself, Thersites,” retorted the poet; and, holding the sprig of myrtle in his hand, after a few moments’ thought, he began to sing in his pleasant voice the following words to a lively French air.